My wedding day dawned with dove gray skies. I remember that I wore galoshes to the Navy Chapel because it rained so much prior. After all this time of waiting, I was finally going to marry Ian. I would have my own unbroken, stable, loving family and know that joy. Having not slept the night before, I was a messy combination of emotional rawness, jittery nervousness, melancholy and ecstasy. I wondered which would look worse in the photos, my red eyes or my unbleached teeth or my humidity-frizzed hair. I tried not to look too closely at the simple ivory dress that I had snagged on clearance from JCPenney. It was worlds away from the dress I had dreamed, of course. I had to supplement it with an embroidered, lacy shrug of mine, to make it church-appropriate. Oh well, I thought, It is all I could afford, and now I am out of time to come up with anything better. Ian is already crazy enough to be wild about my looks. Let's just hope the insanity holds out.
Between finances, relocating and deployment, Ian and I had to get married as soon as we could. We could not have a big celebration with all of our friends. We would not get our High Tridentine Mass. There would be no organ or choir. There would be no reception. I had not even been able to ship my wedding veil to Washington. There would be no reception, no beautiful church, and nobody would be there except Ian's parents and a grandmother that I was still getting to know.
Ian just wore a suit for the ceremony instead of his dress uniform. The little Navy Chapel still had poinsettias decorating the altar for us. After all, in the old calendar, it was still the Christmas Season. I bought the only other flowers from a grocery store that morning. I bound together corsages for my grandmother and new mother in law, a button-hole for my new father in law, and one for Ian. Ian was so happy that he got the single red rose I had bought. He made me smile again and again and held me when I needed a hug. My in laws reactions were priceless and touching. I had wanted to give the new additions to my family a peace offering and gesture of filial love. It meant more to them somehow, that I had made them myself that morning.
I managed to have enough white spray roses afterward to bind up a nosegay for myself. I used an old, celery colored, chiffon scarf to wrap it. As I assembled myself in the bathroom, and mentally prepared, I hoped that I still managed to look bridal. I thought about the wartime brides I had seen in 1940's movies, who wore suits with pencil skirts and covered their day hats with newspapers to shield them from the rain. I smiled. Every bride that I had ever known, said that their wedding day felt surreal. They were right. I was still pinching myself.
I thought about each of my friends with gratitude and regard. I tried not to be sad that they could not be there. Many brides have not had the luxury of being reunited with old friends when they wed. I told myself again. I thought about my father. My poor, beloved, abusive, estranged father. I said a prayer for him and thanked God for the gift of my life. And I was so relieved and grateful that he was far away and could never hurt me again. I had said goodbye to him years ago. At my graduation, my relatives had played at a charade of us not being estranged from each other and that he was not an unrepentant, abusive predator. After enduring their antics and his with more grace than I should have, I promised myself that I would never again let them spoil a major event of my life with such a disgusting farce. Between his charade and my mothers antics it was almost more than I could bear. He was not here, and my abusive, mentally ill mother was not here either. The relatives that had turned a blind eye to my pain who did not really know me were not there. And I felt tremendous relief. Now I could cry if I wanted to. Now I did not have to make an apology for my tears or broken heart to anyone. Now I could be happy and laugh without them. And there was nobody around to demand apology for that either. God and Ian both knew and loved my heart and they were the only ones there.
I thought of James, Margaret and Charlie, John, Thomas, Andrew, Elizabeth, Teresa, Elena, Peter and Catherine. My brothers and sisters. After growing up giving so much of myself to them, I had left for college. We had all missed so much of each other's lives. I was the first of the children to go to college and graduate. I was the first to truly break free from the domestic violence, emotional abuse, co-dependency and denial that was our lives before and after the divorce. Now I would be the first of our broken, dysfunctional family to get married. A cold hand gripped at my heart. Everything in me ached for them. For all of us. We were eleven beautiful, bright, gifted children who were born to a psychotic father and a neurotic mother. Our parents were bitterly divorced and could not stand each other. We loved our parents, we loved each other, and we loved our Catholic faith. And now we had to pick up our cross and follow Christ. We had to find our path to follow Christ according to our vocations, not in imitation of our parents' example. I was the eldest of them and the least of them. I wished they could have been there and we could have been happy together. But it was impossible. And that was what heaven was for. I prayed in my heart and spoke to them: I love all of you so much. I wish you could all be here. But if we all make it to heaven, we will have all eternity to be together and be happy.
During our marriage prep the priest had said to me and my prospective spouse "You know you are 50% more likely to divorce because her parents are divorced?" Haha. "Yes, father" we replied. "But we are not going to get divorced," Ian stated. "And of course I know that father", I added. "Every child whose parents are divorced gets that statistic read to them. It is one of the hallmark joys of being a child of a broken home that you sometimes get treated like an unsafe bet, or damaged goods."
I wanted to tell my brothers and sisters that we had a choice. And a chance. We could be loving, loyal, only slightly insane, semi-well adjusted people. We could be good and faithful Christians. And we could have happy, loving, lifelong marriages.
I fastened the string of pearls that Ian had bought me from Thailand as a Christmas present. The words of another priest, a dear, very old, jokester and toughie of a retired Marine Irish priest came back to me. "You take good care of her! You, Mr. Scottish, Navy man, you! This girl right here! She is like a pearl of great price! A man sells everything that he has to have her!" I had laughed and blushed and Ian had turned to me and said, "He is right. You are my pearl. You are priceless."
Now I fastened the earrings that matched the necklace and admired them again. Somehow, now that I saw how gorgeous and expensive real pearls were, it made the memory of that pretty speech more loving. I hummed the tune to the chant I would sing for the responsorial psalm and thought of Ian.
Dear Ian. He was my hero and my comrade at arms. Brave Ian. Clever Ian. Wise Ian. Kind Ian. Crazy Ian. Silly Ian. Serious Ian. Melancholy Ian. Peaceful Ian. Quiet Ian. Noisy Ian. Loyal Ian. Steadfast Ian. Every beautiful gesture, gift and love-speech he had ever made me, every hug and kiss, every loving glance and gaze came rushing at my memory and overwhelmed me. I was too overwhelmed with emotion to weep joyful tears or talk coherently to my grandmother when she tumbled into the bathroom. I loved him so much and now I was finally going to be his life's companion forever.
"Stern as Death is love. Relentless as the Netherworld. Many waters cannot drown love." I thought to myself. I squeezed my bouquet, looked at myself in the mirror one last time, took a deep breath and walked to down the hall to the chapel to marry Ian.
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